Welcome to the Hotseat of Truth, a device in which your protagonist is trapped. The only way to escape is to answer five searching questions completely honestly or the Hotseat will consume them to ashes! 

Today’s victim is Aaspa the eponymous heroine of Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago

What do you regard as the most important principle everyone should uphold?

I can’t narrow it down to just one so I will give you a short essay. I believe in the three freedoms. Freedom from want. Freedom of thought. Freedom to love as you will. 
In addition, I believe adults to be responsible for the safety and happiness of the young. 
And, of course, I  believe it is fundamentally wrong to judge people on their appearance.

What is your relationship with humanity?

As you are, presumably, human yourself you may not care for my thoughts about your species. I am sure that the best among you are to be admired and respected, but all the humans I have met have been the dregs of a power and money-hungry society wherein it is each for himself. A human was responsible for my mother’s untimely death, deeming her own arrogant bigheadedness of more value than the life of one she spoke of as a ‘mere animal’, so maybe that has coloured my view of humans unfairly. 
Whatever the truth of it, I cordially despise humans and have as little to do with them as possible. I don’t mind killing them though. 
*Aaspa grins showing her fearsome fangs.*
I guess I have to make an exception for you.

How important to you is the idea of second chances and showing mercy?

Of course I believe in second chances. Everyone deserves a chance to learn from their mistakes and to right any wrongs they may have been responsible for. 
What I’m not so keen on is third and fourth chances. If someone is given the chance to turn their life around, but they spurn that chance in favour of wrongdoing then they do so at their own peril. I am a big giver of second chances, but less lenient with those who keep on making the same mistakes.
Mercy is a different concept altogether, and my idea of this virtue may differ from yours. But I will explain. To me. Mercy is the giving of friendship and understanding to the friendless and the misunderstood. It is the offering of food to the hungry and shelter to the homeless. Mercy can indeed involve not taking advantage of a vanquished foe, but equally killing a creature that is beyond help can also be mercy in its purest form.

What do you fear the most?

For myself I fear little – except perhaps the moving staircase to the place of the angels (that just about makes me piss myself, even though I know it to be a silly fear).
The real hard fear, however, and the one that wakes me in the night in a cold sweat is that someone might decide to harm my imps. 

What one thing in life would you never agree to give up?

That’s an easy one Aascko, my mate, my life, the other half of my soul and the air that I breathe.

You can read more about Aaspa in Aaspa’s Eyes by Jane Jago

They came before dawn, silent as wraiths and deadly as rattlesnakes. 

By the time the men were aware of danger they were having their throats cut by soundless assassins.

The raiders herded women and children into the grassy bailey, where the systematic butchery began. Old women and male children first. Then young female children and plain women.

In the end there was naught left but prime bloodstock and the leader signed for the slaughter to cease.

“Slaves for sale.” His smile was like the cut of a whip.

Morgana spat in his face. 

He had them all killed for that.

©jane jago

A flash fiction by Jane Jago. You can listen to this on YouTube.

In the master bedroom, a woman shut the door between herself and the scores of well-meaning friends and relations who filled the house with their hustle and bustle. She sat down in front of her mirror and began making herself ready to face the hardest day of her life. She worked carefully, taking each step of the ritual slowly, and attempting to brace herself with the simple fact of its familiarity. It was a routine in which each item on her dressing table had its allotted place, and was to be used at its allotted time.

She noticed dispassionately how sorrow and lack of sleep had wreaked havoc with her face, and dabbled random snatches of grey into her cap of mouse-brown hair. Even the softly flattering antique mirror she had inherited from her mother’s grandmother couldn’t make her seem anything but old, and sad, and somehow diminished on this particular morning. ‘You look a proper hag’ she said to her reflection, before gently putting her hairbrush in its accustomed place. She picked up her rings from the little glass bowl beside her, where they always lived when she wasn’t wearing them. After sliding them onto her fingers, she closed her eyes while she threaded gold hoops into the holes in her earlobes.

Feeling the warm weight of two hands on her shoulders, she opened her eyes and managed a half smile for the man who stood behind her.
‘You all right?’
‘No. But I will be.’
‘Good girl.’
She looked down at the rings on her left hand for a moment before saying what was at the very front of her mind.
‘It occurs to me that if I believed in the resurrection and the light, and the possibility of eternal life in the hands of a loving God, today might be a comfort to me…’
‘It might indeed. But as you don’t, not even a little bit, it will be just one more thing to be endured.’
Being so completely understood was like balm to her shredded nerve endings and she put the hand she had been so carefully studying on top of the big square one on her left shoulder.
‘Oh I do love you’ she said with almost childlike simplicity ‘I just don’t tell you enough.’
‘That’s all right’ he replied, in the deep imperturbable voice that had been her lodestone for more than forty years ‘I know. I’ve always known.’
She allowed herself the luxury of leaning back and resting her head against the solid wall of his chest. Closing her eyes she let the tears run unchecked down her cheeks.
‘Don’t cry, love.’
‘Am not. Much.’
Then she felt him bend and rest his cheek against her hair. They stayed like that for a long time, each drawing courage from the other as they had done so many times before. When he finally lifted his head, their eyes met in the silvery depths of the mirror.
‘I just wish…’

But she was never to hear what he wished as there came a tap on the door and her sister’s worried face peeped around the panels.
‘Are you ready? It’s just that the cars are here.’
She stood up and squared her shoulders. ‘Yes. Coming now.’

So she left that place of sanctuary, and went downstairs. Down to where people wore black clothes and sombre faces, and where the hearse bearing her husband’s coffin waited in the street.

© Jane Jago 2017

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

I am old I have noticed this fact 
There’s no need to approach it with tact
I don’t bother that you
Will have noticed it too
But stop smirking or you will get smacked

© jane jago

A flash fiction by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

There was an endless, hacking, dry cough coming through the paper-thin walls, which combined with the aching squeal of protest in the springs of the bed as I tried to find an almost comfortable position to lie in, made sleep seem a grimly distant prospect. At least, I thought, I would get no unwelcome visitors here. The mildew-scented air, battled with a slightly sour odour of fabric left too long undried that was perfuming my pillowcases. It reminded me of the smell of the dirty-linen basket at home.

Home.

I had no home now, I had forfeited that in exchange for a promise of happiness.

Thoughts and emotions welled up anew, like bubbles rising in a boiling pot, and the more I tried to let them go, the faster they seemed to simmer. So I gave up the battle and opened my eyes, the sickly yellow glow of the flickering, streetlight outside the window revealing where the wallpaper had pinched-up and peeled off, revealing the card with a picture of a single rose. It had been my talisman for weeks and my promised ticket to freedom – five magic words: ‘Trust me, I love you’.

My trust in that love had brought me here – this place that was supposed to have been a sanctuary but offered only cold comfort.

E.M. Swift-Hook

His weight on her was such that she could barely breathe. She moved a little restlessly, feeling wetness spreading across her back. Oh well, she thought, at least he’d had fun then – but she wished he’d shift his backside. 

He didn’t, so she made a determined effort to extract herself from the stifling prison of his sheer bulk. Finally free, she scrabbled for the lamp. Turning up the wick she saw a sea of colour. The wetness that soaked the bed was bright scarlet and had seeped from around the axe buried between his shoulder blades.

She started to scream…

©jane jago

From Iconoclast: Mistrust and Treason, a Fortune’s Fools by E.M. Swift-Hook. You can listen to this on YouTube.

He’d never met Avilon Revid in person before, the man who was viewed with awe by most of the youngsters back then and with a wary respect by the High Council. Revid was the man who made miracles. The man who had brought the Coalition to its knees in some parts of the galaxy and had liberated entire planets from corporate domination. Meeting him was the kind of event that stuck in your mind.
Torbalen’s first thought had been how little like a figure of legend he really was in the flesh. There was nothing exceptional in the man’s appearance. His face was familiar to anyone who watched the newscasts. He was something over average height, but not dramatically so, with straight brown hair and unremarkable features. Revid hadn’t been alone, he was speaking with a slightly shorter man, sharp-faced, dark eyed, and dark haired, who was watching Torbalen approach them with suspicion. Then Revid had stopped talking to the man beside him and turned to look directly at Torbalen, revealing the incredible brilliance of his eyes, an almost luminous green.
“It seems I have a lot to thank you for,” Revid said, making a quick gesture to the contents of the warehouse.
Torbalen gave a small nod of acknowledgement.
“Just doing my job — the job I should be doing, not the one where they drown me in administration first.”
The other man had spoken then. He was holding one of the weapons and seemed to be admiring it.
“This,” he said, “is good kit. Quality.”
“And that is high praise, coming from an elite mercenary,” Revid added.
The dark haired man grinned. So he would be the mercenary commander Revid had insisted on taking on for the military side of this strike. There had been disquiet in the High Council around that, with plenty of objections. The concept of including someone who wasn’t personally committed to their ideals had made a number of the Councillors extremely agitated. Revid’s famously pithy reply had been that he considered they were being selfish to allow only members of The Legacy the chance to die for the cause. Torbalen had been one of those supporting Revid, even though he had refused to offer any other details about the mercenary, except when pressed, said he was known as ‘Jaz’.
“It should be quality,” Torbalen told them, unable to resist a small boast. “It came from the military. It was part of a shipment being made to resupply an offensive.”
“You stole from the Marines?” The one called Jaz sounded both impressed and disbelieving.
“You would be amazed how easy it is sometimes. Those who live by bureaucracy find themselves willing to surrender anything if presented with an appropriate looking form.”
That had made the dark haired man laugh.
“You don’t need those, brother,” he said, gesturing to the crates. “You only need a few more men like him.” He had nodded towards Torbalen. “Then the whole fucking Coalition would sign itself over to your Legacy.”
Even Revid had smiled, ironically, at that.
“If only it could be that simple.”
He’d sounded as if he meant it and perhaps he had. Perhaps he hadn’t been one of the typical ‘death or glory’ merchants who formed the majority in the ranks he led. Torbalen had met too many of them, most little more than children, all young people full of hate and hurt and anger, wanting to strike back and not caring if they died in the process. Not surprising when they believed all they had to live for had been crushed out of existence by the blind and remorseless advance of the Coalition. People like his own son.
Maybe something of that showed on Torbalen’s face. Perhaps there wasn’t quite enough of the uncritical adulation Revid was used to, because he frowned slightly when Torbalen didn’t respond. The dark haired man had used the silence, nodding a brief farewell and moving off quickly, to check the various crates and packs, leaving the two of them alone.
“You have my personal thanks, for what that is worth,” Revid told him. “When this is done you’ll have the gratitude of an entire Sector of free people too. I could never have set this up without your being willing to work with me outside the lines. This will be your victory as much as mine.”
Torbalen felt flattered as he assumed was intended. He’d also felt awkward in the moment, not sure what he should say. None of the usual platitudes seemed to fit. It was nothing? That would have been a huge untruth, getting this shipment together had taken him days with no sleep. You’re welcome? That made it sound like a small, formal favour had been delivered and would have diminished both the scale of his own achievement and the praise he was being offered for it. So he said what was on his mind:
“I just hope it’s enough.”
Revid had nodded, there was a shift in the intense green gaze as if he was reassessing something. Then he’d stepped forward and gripped Torbalen’s arm briefly.
“We need to be moving. But when I get back I’d like the chance to talk with you some more, if you are willing?”
For a moment, Torbalen understood the magic hold this man had on others. The sudden rush of tight emotion he experienced almost choked him back from replying and when he did, it was only with the trite, stock phrases of polite convention that came easily to mind.
“I’d be happy to. Let me know when you are back around. Hope to see you soon.”
Afterwards, he felt embarrassed that he’d spoken that way, but in truth, he was glad he’d managed to find any words at all. At least he hadn’t stood there, mouth slack and starry-eyed. He had also been furious with himself. He never thought he might be someone to be affected by celebrity or wowed by charisma. Mercifully, Revid had either not noticed or perhaps was simply so used to such reactions in the people he spoke to, he didn’t consider it worthy of note or response. He’d simply released Torbalen’s arm and stepped away with a brief nod, freeing Car to take his leave and leaving Revid and his people to free the Varn Sector.
Except that was not how it had worked out.

E.M. Swift-Hook.

The life of an elderly delinquent in limericks – with free optional snark…

You are old, and you are a disgrace
Should be modest and downcast of face
It is so deeply wrong 
That you’re wearing a thong
And a peephole in black silk and lace

© jane jago

The Rabid Readers Review Tales of Magic and Destiny from Inklings Press.

Twelve takes on ‘fantasy’ as individual as the authors.
Not every story was to my personal taste, although all were interesting enough to keep me reading to the end.
I found myself with three favourites:
It’s Always Sunny at The Fortress of Bones by Jaleta Clegg is a whimsical take on the forbidden castle trope – I have to admit quite a fondness for the fate of the hapless hero.
The Rogue of Averrath by Tom Jolly pits wits against magic in a hugely enjoyable way.
Out of the Dust by Leo McBride: what happens when danger walks out of a sandstorm?
This book is genuinely recommended to anyone who enjoys either fantasy and/or short fiction
A solid four stars.

Jane Jago.

Full-on Fantasy!

This is an excellent collection of stories from that pedigree stable of speculative fiction, Inklings Press. It is – to use a cliche – a smorgasbord, offering a variety of tasty excursions into diverse worlds, such as the richly described and peopled one of Jeanette O’Hagan’s Wolf Scout, and creative concepts – such as the powers of the magical sword in Rob Edward’s Virtue’s Blade.
Tropes were overturned. Dramatically, as in Brent Harris’ chosen one of prophecy dying in the opening paragraph of The Heroine’s Journey or more humorously as with the sorcerer’s apprentice trope in Tara. E. Woods’ brilliantly delightful Chanter.
Whilst I found the conceptual creativity and worldbuilding consistently superb – new worlds unfolding like origami flowers – in a few of the stories the way characters interacted and reacted to those worlds, didn’t always quite gel. On more than one ocassion I felt a character seemed to be shoe-horned into their actions to serve the plot rather than them flowing from the context. But this was a minor irritation and little distraction from the overall excellence of the whole.

My personal favourites were:
The Fearsome Lambton Worm by Kerry Buchanan. Alright, I admit it, I live in Lambton Worm land and love the song so I was already half-sold by the name of the story. But that prejudice aside, its understated and quirky humour and the unexpected ending really worked for me.
Out of the Dust by Leo McBride. This is a story that feels like it is a scene from a full-blown epic that yet can stand alone. It leaves the reader with more questions than it answers for them and desperately hoping that the world created has more within it for further reading than just this one passing glimpse.
Asherah’s Pilgrimage by Ricardo Victoria. A story that has high-stakes and drama, personal courage and friendship, action and introspection, humour and pathos. For me, it captures the essence of what it is to be an individual overcoming their own limitations to achieve something that really matters.

The other stories in this anthology were all worth reading, just those stood out for me as the ones I most enjoyed. But in any such collection, everyone will have their favourites and I strongly suggest you snag a copy and see which ones are yours.

E.M. Swift-Hook

It was freezing cold in the stubble, but Grandma brought the littlies out anyway. They stood in a line looking at the smoke from the pie plant.

It was Joah who broke the silence.

“Looks warm over there.”

“Aye,” Grandma spat a stream of yellow saliva onto the frozen ground. “I dare say it is.”

“So why don’t we go there?”

“Because we like being alive.”

For a long moment nobody spoke, then a thin scream came to their ears on the fitful breeze.

“Is that?”

“Sure is. Some poor soul lured in out of the cold. Pie meat now.”

©jane jago